


home

by ab82



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:22:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9807053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab82/pseuds/ab82
Summary: jughead reflects on home, and other things.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I'm super excited to be writing in the Riverdale fandom; four episodes in and I'm already hooked on this show and its characters. I mean, what's not to love? (Except Miss Grundy) 
> 
> Anyway, Jughead has been a particular favorite of mine as of late, and after seeing the ending of Episode 4 last night, I immediately got inspired. Because this work was basically written in an hour, it doesn't really go anywhere, and is more of an absentminded angsty drabble! hopefully that's alright, and hopefully i did jughead's character at least a little bit of justice.
> 
> Obviously this probably isn't what will canonically happen, and Jughead's actual background story will likely turn out much different from what I've written. I just had fun with it and let myself imagine what I could see happening. 
> 
> Final thing -- a lot of these sentences are probably run-ons. They are long and rambling and likely overly wordy, but that is on purpose. It's meant to be somewhat like Jughead's thought process, and I've always seen him as a long-winded ramble kinda guy. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!!  
> xo,  
> L

Jughead Jones can wholeheartedly conclude that getting your home ripped out from under your feet is certainly one of the worst feelings in the world.

 

Not _the_ worst — no, that’s more like finding out your dad stole from your best friend’s dad, or probably more of that awful twist in your chest when you finally realize why the hot girls in car commercials don’t seem all that hot to you. 

 

It’s not as if Jughead doesn’t know what loss is like. He does. It’s watching the best friend you’ve ever had walk past you in the hallway, not laughing at his asshole teammates’ jibes at you but not exactly stopping them either. Like he’s above you (which isn’t wrong, exactly, but _god_ does it hurt to finally have that reaffirmed). Like you’re just a dirty ghost from his dirty past, but you’re not a part of his squeaky-clean future plans, because sixteen-year-olds who still wear the beanie their ex-best friend made them in fifth grade don’t exactly fit in with raging hormonal jocks. (He really misses the way it used to be too big for him, how the gray cloth would flop into his eyes all the time. Now it fits him just about right — not perfectly, because that’s not a word that gets associated with any Jones — and he has to see everything. Too much, sometimes, particularly when it comes to music teachers and dim classrooms.) 

 

It’s also watching your father walk out of your life, all too similar to the way your best friend will a few months later. _“Can’t do it anymore, kid,”_ he’d said, shrugging his shoulders as Jelly had sniffled and Jughead had just stared. _“Sorry.”_

 

He knows that when you lose something, you lose a part of it with you. He’s lost the majority of himself in the past twelve months. But to lose the drive-in, the place where he’s always felt safe and secure and _home_ … That’s not a loss he’s sure he can bear. He’s not sure he has much left of himself to give.

 

But no. He’s been through a worse loss than that. The worst of all. 

 

His sister.

 

They came for Jelly a half hour before he’d gotten home from school that warm June afternoon. The middle school had an early release day. He’d forgotten. He’ll never forgive himself for that.

 

They’d left a notice on the door — the Jones’ rundown one-level house was, apparently, to be seized by the bank in the coming weeks and any “occupants” were to evacuate the premises immediately. Jughead has always wondered if they forgot him, if they thought he’d run away, or if maybe they just figured no one would want to adopt a kid like him. Probably a combination of the three.

 

He tried to find her. The closest children’s home that he knew of was thirty minutes away, in Pleasant Falls (what an ironic name, huh). He’d hitchhiked all the way there, ignoring the judgmental stares from passersby and the slightly creepy grin he got from one trucker in particular (it made his stomach turn, and he’d almost gotten out then and there, until he remembered the sweet smile Jelly had given him that morning when he left for school, and he was very quickly reminded that this was more than worth it). 

 

But when he got to Pleasant Falls Orphanage & Childcare Center, there was no record of a Jellybean Jones, or a Forsythia Jones. No Jones kids at all, actually. He ended up leaving after the secretary asked him two times too many where his parents were.

 

Only when he got back to the house that was no longer his did he find out.

 

“Jughead!” their elderly neighbor, a sweet old lady with a penchant for cat-eye glasses and mothball-scented cardigans, had called out to him. “What are you still doing here, sweetie? Thought you’d be with your sister.”

 

_Yeah, me too_. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, and Jughead had to take a breath to steady himself before he stepped over the cracked cement that separated their houses and approached the woman. Mrs. Oakburn was her name, he thought.

 

“I don’t know,” he muttered, shaking his head. “She was just… _gone_ when I came home. And our house is being foreclosed on, apparently, and I don’t even know where my mother is.”

 

His neighbor’s entire face changed in a split second. The wrinkles on her face deepened, a shiny kind of sadness in her eyes and her features gone lined with worry as she whispered, “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. Nobody’s told you?”

 

Every cell in Jughead’s body had turned to ice in that moment. “Told me what?” he’d managed to get out, a lump forming in his throat already.

 

“There was an — an _accident_ , sweetheart. I’m afraid your—” the neighbor paused, sighed deeply. “I’m afraid your mother didn’t make it,” she’d said quietly, stepping closer to him. “The sheriff told me when he came to put up the eviction notice. I’m sorry, Jughead, I thought you’d be with your sister by now.”

 

“Where did they take her?” he had demanded, voice thick with tears he hadn’t wanted to shed.

 

“I don’t know, sweetie. Look, why don’t you come in, I can call someone —” his neighbor started.

 

“No,” Jughead said tightly, swiping furiously at the wetness on his cheeks. “No, it’s fine. Thanks, Mrs. Oakburn. I’ll see you around, I guess.” 

 

He was gone in seconds, even though his neighbor called out after him for a good five minutes. Only when he’d reached the safe confines of their town’s famously dense forest did he realize he could taste blood. 

 

He’d bitten through his lip. 

 

••••

He never lets himself think about it too much anymore. He doesn’t know where Jelly is; doesn’t know if anyone might ever come searching for him, too. Doesn’t think they really will. He tries to comfort himself, spins masterful lies to soothe his brain when he can’t sleep, endlessly repeats one mantra: _Wherever she is, she’s safe, she’s happy._ Maybe one day, he’ll actually believe it. 

 

Statistically, he knows his sister doesn’t stand a chance. Foster homes are more likely to harm rather than help kids like her. 

 

But he’ll never stop trying to believe. Not until the day he finally gets to see her again.

 

••••

Even though he knows he shouldn’t, Jughead comes back to the drive-in on its scheduled demolition day. He watches, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders aching from the weight of his backpack, as they crash a wrecking ball into the one home he had left.

 

He hears they might put a Whole Foods in.

 

His plan had been to sneak away undetected, preferably off to Pop’s to stare into the depths of an espresso and pretend it was the steam from the coffee clouding his eyes, but, true to fashion, Murphy’s Law comes back to bite him in the ass. He’s just turned his back to the massacre of the drive-in when he feels a tap on his shoulder. The smell of cheap leather tells him who it is before he even gets the chance to look.

 

His father looks the same as he did six months ago. Same ugly jacket with the same trashy gang symbol on the back. Same soft flannel that Jughead remembers always tugging at as a kid. Same five-o’clock shadow, same slicked-back dark hair, and the same blueish-greenish eyes his mom used to call “enchanting”. Jughead’s got those eyes, too, but he doesn’t think anyone’s ever called them enchanting. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever even noticed them.

 

Jughead can barely stand to look at him.

 

“Come back, Jug,” his father says softly. The strap of Jughead’s backpack is digging into his skin. He readjusts it and refuses to meet his father’s eyes. The quintessential Riverdale blue sky is much more aesthetically pleasing.

 

“Back to what, Dad?” he snaps. He’s tired, hasn’t eaten anything since 12 o’clock today, and _really_ needs a cup of coffee and three hamburgers, none of which he’ll be able to afford, and so Pops will just “put it on his tab” again, and this is all his father’s fault, isn’t it? It’s his fault for stealing from Mr. Andrews. It’s his fault for getting caught up with the Serpents. It’s his fault for leaving. It’s his fault for fucking _standing here_.

 

Jelly and his mom would still be here if it weren’t for him. The drive-in would still be here — Jughead knows it somehow. He’d still have a _home_ , somewhere to eat and sleep and shower, three things that shouldn’t have to be luxuries for anyone.

 

“You know what I mean, kid,” his father pleads. He tries to close the gap between them, but Jughead steps back, a twig snapping under his shoe. “Come with me. You don’t have to live like…” He gestures with one arm at the backpack. “Like _this_ anymore.” 

 

Anger pricks hot and heavy under his skin, but Jughead refuses to let it win. His father is the last person he can lose his cool in front of. “Sorry, not all that interested in gang activity,” he hisses, turning back to leave. 

 

His dad catches him by the strap of his pack. “Don’t you do this,” he growls. “Don’t you do this to me, Jughead. You’re my _namesake_ ; you can’t just abandon me that easily.” 

 

That does it. His dad can stand there and try to manipulate him all day, can make whatever illegal and immoral deals he wants, can _leave_ as many times as he wants, but there’s one line he can’t cross, and that’s it. Ever since he left, Jughead’s made that one thing clear: he absolutely _will not_ be associated with his father. He broke those ties months ago, and he sure as hell won’t let one stupid name chain him to that man for eternity. It’s why he’d told Veronica his name was Jughead Jones the Third. Not Forsythe the Third. No one’s ever called him that anyway. 

 

He swears he can _feel_ the fury radiating off of him as he snarls, “I made a _choice_ , Dad. Just like you. You chose to leave, and I chose to take care of myself. You chose to join a gang, and I chose to deny your oh-so-generous offer of initiation. And I chose to _separate_ myself from you, because I don’t want to be like you! Don’t you get that? We may share a name, but I am _nothing_ like you.” 

 

His father’s eyes dull — maybe with hurt, maybe with irritation, Jughead doesn’t know or particularly care — and his grip on the backpack loosens. Jughead takes this as his opportunity to leave — but not, of course, without one final line.

 

“And if you’re so worried about where I’m living, Dad, don’t worry — I’ve got it covered,” he calls over his shoulder, hiking the pack further up his arm. “I’ll make sure I find somewhere without any _snakes_.” 

 

His father lets him go.


End file.
